


spy fall

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, I tried to justify this by saying there’s worse fics out there, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Nazis, Racism, Rape, but that’s not really a justification is it, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You will tell us where the captain is, ja?” the man across from him said pleasantly.The Master slowly opened his eyes, looking up at his captor. At how his prominent teeth stuck out in imperfect, crowded lines, how is jaw seemed to protrude from his face, beady eyes staring below slick straw-colored hair. He doesn’t remember this one, sure he would if only for his eye-catching ugliness.“I am the captain,” he hissed in German.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (implied), The Master/OMC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	spy fall

**Author's Note:**

> listen, this probably isn’t historically accurate. i did not want to research nazis. but honestly, i don’t think you clicked on this fic for that, i think that you came here to see the master get dicked down, and as i wrote this for that exact purpose, everything works out

Another burning wave of shocks through his body. The Master seized, teeth clenching, blinding white piercing him behind his eyelids, and he is unsure if he actually wants to fall into the void of blackness he was dangling off of. No, no, he wouldn’t face the indignity of blacking out from some paltry, Neanderthalic device.

For a second, he felt the pit would pull him in, whether he wanted it to or not, and it was that moment the current stopped. He fell forwards, slouching pathetically. He was held up solely by the awkward manner in which his hands were bound behind his chair, ropes that dug unpleasantly into his wrists.

“You will tell us where the captain is, ja?” the man across from him said pleasantly. 

The Master slowly opened his eyes, looking up at his captor. At how his prominent teeth stuck out in imperfect, crowded lines, how his jaw seemed to protrude from his face, beady eyes staring below slick straw-colored hair. He doesn’t remember this one, sure he would if only for his eye-catching ugliness.

“I am the captain,” he hissed in German.

“Ah, no. The captain is a… traitor to our glorious nation, I suppose. But he was an Aryan and you… are not.”

Well, the captain was dead, actually. Long dead. But revealing that would, what? Get him shot against the wall? Thrown into some hell? If they even believed him, that it is. Instead, he happily informed the man to have sexually intercourse with himself.

The blonde proceeded to pull off his undershirt with a deceptive gentleness. They’d stripped him of his uniform the first chance they got, of course. The Master wondered if he would have ripped the layer off, proven his disgust if he could, but the man couldn’t, for he is weak, as all humans are. 

The dark expanse of skin that is his chest was revealed, with all its occasionally patches of hair. It’s still somewhat shocking to behold, his new regeneration, such a striking difference from the rest. Soft where others were sharp, muscular where others were thin. The man takes a moment, his hand resting upon the Masters breast, and the unwanted gentle pressure is almost more disturbing than the rest of their session combined.

Then he attached a clip to each nipple and flipped the switch, and a far more nauseating, striking pain overtook his mind. After a few moments it left once more, leaving only a pronounced ache and tiredness in his bones and a heightened pain in his, well, everywhere else.

The man paused, twisting one of the clips almost absentmindedly, sending a jolt through the Master’s body. He chuckled, and flipped the switch again.

“You know,” he murmured, flipping the switch off, “I, for one, am having a wonderful time. I don’t think you will last longer than I.”

“Oh, you’re very mistaken about that. I’ll live to see your grandchildren’s grandchildren rot and—“ His words were cut off when a scream of pain ripped out of his throat.

And then the switch is flicked again. Silence. He’s about to speak. On again. Off. Is it the drums in his head once more or are simply his hearts beating in loud, shameful desperation? On once more, and this time must be longer, far longer, because he refuses to believe, no, to even consider that maybe he’s getting weaker, that the pain is becoming too much.

He heard the click of the switch this time. He didn’t look up, and wished his hair wasn’t buzzed if only to give him a degree of separation from the man’s lecherous gaze. He felt a bit of spit dribble from him slack jaw. His insides feel cooked, and he nearly expects smoke to rise off of him and provide that sought after privacy. He almost didn’t notice the man removing the clips.

A hand is slipped under his chin, brushing against his stubble, far too close to the Master’s neck for his own liking. His face was pushed up roughly, forcing his eyes to meet his captor’s piercing green ones. They glittered with a familiar sadism.

“You know, all things considered, you’re quite pretty,” the man remarked. The rough pad of his thumb drifted up his chin, finally pressing against his bottom lip.

The Master jerked back in his limited space, spine rocking unpleasantly against the hard back of his chair. Then he spat in his face.

“Keep your perverted musings to yourself, ape.”

For the first time, the man’s face dropped, thin lips twisting into a snarl of a frown.

“I think you have us mixed up, boy,” he said, voice laced with venom.

In a second of time, 4 drum-heart beats, the man is violently scrambling at his waist. The Master resisted, attempting a kick to the genitals, but with his fried muscles, his efforts are for naught.

As he pulled away from him, his drawers in hand, and he heard the man murmur ‘feisty thing’ under his breath. Now, mostly, he wants to gouge his eyes out with a spoon, now rather than later. He feels exposed, yes, but some of his defeats at the Doctor’s hands have been worse, all things considered.

He begins to ask, to taunt: “What—“ His words are interrupted by an intrusion of fabric into his mouth. The balled up cloth of his boxers, tasting of salty sweat and grime. He squawked in indignation, but the sound was all but silent. Oh, bleeding out was too good for Blondie.

“Sweet silence,” the man crooned. “I give you an opportunity to talk, and you do nothing but blather on. People like you should be _seen_ and not heard, and best not seen at all.”

The man spit into his hand, continuing, “I would have liked to put that pretty little mouth to some good use, but I think you’d be more than likely to bite it off. _Animal._ ”

The Master wants to rip him apart with words, to explain in careful, vivid detail how he’s 1000 times more powerful than he’ll ever be, seen things he couldn’t even comprehend, then literally rip him apart. Instead, he’s left with his jaw strained painfully, working on the lump of cloth as if he could remove it by force of will, glowering at the man.

When the man grabbed his thighs in a bruising grip, the situation finally settled on him as a cool, disgusting feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He squirmed away from his touch, not that he has anywhere to go between the cold metal of the chair and the man’s invasive fingers. He temporarily retracted his hands, instead putting them to work at his breeches, sticking his knee in between his bare legs to keep them spread. He pulled his swollen cock from his pants, slathering it with his wet palm.

The man’s grip moved once more to his hips, lifting him off up the chair, lower half pressed against his clothed form. Then, without any further preparation, shoved roughly inside him.

The Master couldn’t help the cry that escaped his throat, audible even with the makeshift gag. It felt strange and painful, filling places that shouldn’t be filled and leaving his guts feeling tight. A long time ago he and the Doctor had spent nights together on Gallifrey, but this is as far separated from those golden memories as a wolf from a domesticated pet. The man pulled out halfway, and he’s sure something tore as he did so. A sharp, sudden thrust all the way in, and the man let out a sigh of satisfaction.

He began in earnest. Pistoning in and out of him, forcing his hips forward and back in some sick dance. The room was filled with the man’s heady gasps, and the wanton sound of suction.

Oh, how he hates him.

“I think that—” He stopped with a grunt. “That perhaps you like this, being put in your place by a better man.”

He thinks that this single human has managed to seize more of his hate than any other human. Even that Martha Jones, foiling his perfect plan, or the Doctor on their worst days. He thinks of a million different ways he could kill him, a million different tortures worse than this, trying to separate himself from the feeling of the man’s testicles ramming against where his body meets his thighs.

“The little soldier certainly agrees, eh?” The man’s hand moves inward, feeling up his cock. He had long since moved his gaze to staring furiously at the left corner of the room, and had been ignoring with equal passion how the cold disgust in deep within him had begun to warm unbidden, but now the fact he is half-erect is undeniable. 

He reminded himself that the body’s natural reaction to such instinctual, base interaction is impossible to control. Even for the Master of all.

“Maybe I should let the whole squad have a go with you. Fuck you silly. You wouldn’t be able to talk much, but you make such pretty sounds.”

He seethed, and then the man struck some little spot deep within him. He screamed behind the gag.

The man seemed to take this as a good sign, and, or perhaps because he was simply lost in his own pleasures, began to ram the spot with a passion. 

His hate turns towards the Doctor, towards his best enemy in that moment. Would he have allowed her to fall into such a position? He doesn’t think so, but it doesn’t matter. She certainly did. He knows he would rescue her, after some begging and pleading, wouldn’t leave her to this like she’s left him. He-They-She always leaves him behind.

His treacherous mind offers him the recent memory of her on her knees. The man thrusts violently into him. He moans loud enough it sounds unmuffled.

The man seems to be building towards orgasm, and he hates how he hopes he will soon, so he can just be free of this experience. The man suddenly leans in, his beer scented breath wafting around him, biting unceremoniously into his neck. A most primal display of ownership.

He _hates hates hates_ in four-four time.

And it builds in him too.

The man finally climaxes. Thrusts in for the last time before sagging against him, and somehow his guts still have room to be rearranged. He feels some of the man’s seed already leaking out, wetting the inside of his thighs, but he’s far too distracted by the fact he’s teetering, teetering towards mindlessness, but then something fails. There’s no friction and it dies in him, yet still he comes, his body shuddering beneath the man’s weight, cock spurting thick strands onto his bare stomach. He feels unsatisfied and violated and sick like he hasn’t ever before.

He refused to look at himself, at the man, at the insturments of torture laid out on a nearby table, instead choosing the ugly concrete wall across the room. He let out a sob, and it horrified him.

He’s talking to him, and the words mean nothing, the human language sounding like nonsense grunting in his ears. The man is chittering and he’s _cutting through his bonds._

The Master seized his opportunity and seized the man’s thick neck. Felt the vertebra crack and separate under the flesh he squeezed so desperately. Ripped the cloth from his mouth with an equal speed and aggression.

Perhaps there’s a good reason the Doctor lets herself be underestimated.

So the man is dead. He’s dead and lying on the metal floor in front of him. He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to rip out the man’s guts and decorate the walls with them till someone drags him away. He wants to curl up in a ball and maybe carve out all the soft bits in his body while he’s at it.

Instead, he stripped the man, and began to fit his clothing over him like a second skin. Ignored how the starched breeches chafe painfully against the insides of his thighs, how he’s sure the things leaking out of him are staining the back of them.

They’d notice him if he leaves like this, of course. So with no small amount of glee, he straddled the man. Took the knife from his hand, popping the spring open for blade to slide out in a flash. Began to gently work it around the edge of his face, around his eyes, and mouth. Savoring the blood that welled up with each delicate cut.

“I,” he laughed sharply, “am having a wonderful time.”

He peeled the flesh back from the man’s face, as satisfying as pulling a strip of skin from your own fresh sunburn. He turned away from the man’s remains as he laid the face upon his own.

“Second skin,” he murmured, and giggled again.

In the reflection of the shiny floor, the unnatural sight was a comfort. Tip his hat down and walk in a hurry and no one would notice. But if they did look too closely however, what would they see? How the skin looked far too loose in some places, hanging off his cheeks, and too tight in others? How oddly pale his cheeks were? How the reddish-pink smeared his lips and eyes?

Oh, it was enjoyable till the eyes. They were his eyes but no, no they were not. They were big and brown and watery, pupils dilated almost cartoonishly. The eyes of a man who was _afraid._

He left that place hating.

**Author's Note:**

> am I really the fucked up one here? chibnall is the one who thought it was a good idea to leave a poc villain with nazis.
> 
> jk I’m not starting discourse in the authors note of my fanfic. hope you enjoyed!!


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